


The Cold Light of Morning

by turnonmyheels



Series: Empty Spaces [4]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnonmyheels/pseuds/turnonmyheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Immediately follows The Silence in the Darkness (Fills the Empty Spaces ).  Juice wakes up in the morning with no way to hold his head that doesn't hurt.  Spoilers:  4.08 Family Recipe</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Light of Morning

The low thundering roll of what sounds like a dozen Harleys hum as he runs down the corridor. With each rev of the motors there’s a corresponding flare of pain behind his eyes. He runs past door after door, all of them closed, wrapped with chains, and secured with padlocks. He darts down a side corridor and chances a glance behind him to see if he’s clear of the beast that’s chasing him. He can’t see anything so he starts to slow down. He spots another turn and ducks down it, squats down then peaks around the corner. He can’t hear the scrabble of claws anymore, only the engines, the occasional rat-a-tat-tat of AKs and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

He sucks in air. He can still smell it. The air is putrid and rank with the creature’s musk. He covers his face with his shirt hoping it will filter the smell. It doesn’t. When his breathing is back under control and his legs stop shaking from the mindless sprint, he crawls around the corner. The way is clear so he stands and begins walking. There are no lights, but he can somehow see enough to walk without bumping into the endless corridor. He takes every second right and prays to whatever is out there that he isn’t wandering in circles.

Click. Click clack. Clickclick clackclick clack

He’s getting closer to the creature instead of further away. He turns around and backtracks. The sounds and the smell keep coming closer; the pain in his head is burning corona bright, nearly blinding him but he keeps going. The smell is making him sick. He gags but forces himself to keep moving; if he stops he knows the creature will kill him. He changes direction again, this time taking every first left.

He can’t shake the feeling that there is something behind him, so close that he can feel its hot breath against his neck. He risks a quick look behind him but sees nothing. He’s feeling more rested even if his head is hurting worse, so he picks up the pace and starts to jog. The corridors seem to be getting brighter or it could be his imagination; or a trap. The lights could be a weapon since the brighter the light becomes the harder it is for him to keep going. He squints against the light, shields his eyes with a hand, and forces himself forward. Every time he thinks he’s found a way out it’s only taken him to another corridor of the same. He’s trapped in a maze and the beast keeps getting closer.

There, up ahead, is a double door -- the first he’s seen. They aren’t chained and locked. It’s a trap. He knows it. It’s a gut deep certainty that he can’t ignore, but the clickclacking of claws behind him is closer than ever and this time when he gags from the odor, he can’t keep it down. When he’s finished he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He reaches for the door knob. It’s solid in his grip, metal cool and oddly comforting in his hand. The creature behind him is coming closer every second. He twists the knob, pushes it open. Light spills into the corridor, that thankfully doesn’t hurt his eyes. He looks inside and nearly faints in relief at the site of the Chapel. His brothers are at the table, an armory of weapons laid out before them.

“Guys! You’ve got to help, there’s something chasing me.” He tries to step through the door but he can’t, there’s some sort of barrier keeping him out like he’s some sort of goddamned vampire without an invitation. The smell and clicking are so close his hind-brain screams at him to runrunrunRUN, overpowering every other instinct. If he can’t get through the door he’s going to die. “Come on! Let me in, or give me an AK. Something!” They don’t even look at him. They’re all at the table: Clay at the head smoking a cigar. Jax to right with Opie beside him, cleaning their Glocks. Tig and Chibs are at the foot of the table sharpening knives. Happy and everyone else are crowded around the table assembling their latest shipment of guns.

“Chibs! Jax!” he yells. “Help me! It’s going to eat me.” He pounds at the invisible barrier, desperate to get their attention. Then Jax stands from the table. Chibs, Opie, and Tig stand with him. They walk toward him, guns in hand, and for one brief second he has hope that the beast isn’t going to get him.

“Rat.” It’s not just a word. It’s a curse. A denunciation and condemnation, verdict without a trial. The four of them raise their arms, guns pointed at him. He squeezes his eyes shut unable to witness his own execution. The beast is behind him, he can feel the saliva drip from its gaping maw onto the back of his neck. He turns around to face it, opens his eyes, and screams.

It’s huge, monstrous in size, bigger than Opie and scarier than every nightmare in the world combined. A goddamn Godzilla-sized mouth, open and darting in to sink its fangs into his throat at the same time his brothers pull the triggers.

He jerks awake with a choked off shout. There’s something across his middle pinning him down. He slits his eyes open, not willing to risk being noticed as awake. The room is mostly dark, light creeping in behind the blinds, stabbing its way into his brain. No way he’s in prison. His ears are still ringing from the gunfire in his dreams. He opens his eyes all the way and looks to see what is holding him down. An arm. A man’s arm, judging by the sparse wiry hairs covering it.

He’s not in prison and the forearm has no tatts. Not Clay.

There’s a pounding in his head and his mouth tastes like somebody shit in it. The man shifts behind him, moving closer. He sees the anarchy symbol beneath a cross on the bicep and knows in an instant it’s Chibs, the ink as familiar to him as his own. The night before comes flooding back and Juice’s stomach flips then rolls. The whisky he drank burns the back of his throat; the room starts spinning. Juice struggles out of bed, staggers down the hall, and collapses on his knees in front of the toilet just in time.

A lifetime later there’s nothing left in his system. Only dry heaves and a few drops of sweat along his mohawk. He heaves again, spits out bitter black bile. “Fuck me.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Chibs’ voice is rough as gravel. He holds out a bottle of Gatorade and Juice takes it. Rinses his mouth out and spits several times before he risks taking a swallow. “You smell like shit. Take a shower and then maybe we’ll see.” There’s a grin behind the words but Juice is too hungover to appreciate it. For a second, he sees Chibs from his dreams getting ready to pull the trigger and unload a clip into his head. His stomach rebels against the Gatorade. When it’s all gone Chibs is still there leaning against the vanity. “Drink some more.”

Juice wants to shake his head no, but the room will only spin again. So he sips, this time barely getting his tongue wet before he swallows. “We gotta couple hours before we gotta be at the club.”

Juice sips the Gatorade again. His stomach rumbles but he keeps it down. “Aspirin?”

“Got something better for you. My da’s world-famous hangover remedy. Been waiting on you to wake up, lazy arse.” Chibs saunters out, ass as white as snow, and Juice realizes that both of them are naked. He gets a sensory flash of Chibs thick and hot in his mouth, cool fingers thumbing the bruising on his neck. Wishes it was still last night and he could lose himself to the oblivion of sex and drugs.

Juice has heard many horror stories -- mainly from Tig -- about the drink concoction Chibs brings to him. None of them prepare him for the yellowish-orange glass of sludge that is shoved in front of his face.

“Don’t look at it. Don’t smell it. Just turn it up and drink it.” Juice takes the glass and looks up at Chibs. The man is grinning from ear to ear. “Keep it down, yeah?” He keeps his eyes on Chibs and pinches his nose closed. It’s rough going down. The taste, the texture, the _thickness_ of it, his stomach starts to rebel but the sharp-eyed stare from Chibs shames him into forcing himself to keep it down. He hands the glass back to Chibs and rests his forehead on the cool edge of the toilet.

“No time for that Juicy-boy.” He hates Chibs. Wishes he would die. The motherfucker drank just as much if not more than Juice the night before. “Got to get cleaned up and to the club.”

Chibs steps past him to the shower and turns it on, leg brushing against Juice in the tight space. He gets another flash, this one of a hand wrapped around his cock and the warmth of a body pressing against him, holding him close in the dark. Chibs hauls him to his feet and pushes him into the shower. Juice yelps when the icy water hits his skin. Starts to get out of the tub but then Chibs steps in with him and holds him beneath the spray. “Christ your breath stinks,” Chibs says and turns Juice around so that he’s facing the water.

Juice opens his mouth to catch some water then rinses and spits. “Like yours is minty fresh or something.”

“Least mine doesn’t smell like puke.”

Chibs gets out of the shower and Juice reaches down and turns on the hot water, adjusts it so that it’s nearly scalding. He ducks his head under the spray letting it hit the back of his neck and his shoulders. He rolls his head from side to side and nearly jumps out of his skin when Chibs yanks the curtain back and gets back in the shower. He’s brushing his teeth and hands Juice the tube of toothpaste. Juice stands under the spray letting the water beat against his neck while Chibs brushes. Chibs eventually spits and hands Juice the toothbrush and they swap places.

“You’re not supposed to share toothbrushes,” Juice says while he brushes so it comes out garbled and he feels like an idiot, what an asinine thing to say. Chibs looks at him. Juice spits in the general direction of the drain getting more on Chibs than anywhere else. “You can transmit Hep-C with toothbrushes and razors.” He watches the toothpaste’s path as it runs down Chibs legs, only to be rinsed off when he shifts under the spray.

“Share more than that drinking my come.” Chibs grabs a bar of soap and switches places with Juice again. Runs the bar across Juice’s back, across his ass and between his cheeks, then down both legs. It’s quick, perfunctory even; regardless, the intimacy of it has Juice blushing. He can feel the heat spread from his face down his neck and across his chest. Chibs pushes him so that he turns around and faces him. Drags the soap across the front of his body, doesn’t linger over his dick, just gets the job done. When he’s finished and all the soap is off of Juice they switch again. Chibs hands Juice the soap and he returns the favor. Chibs shampoos quickly, even uses a bit of conditioner. Juice just runs the bar of soap over his mohawk a couple of times, then rinses, and they’re done.

“Fuck. Forgot the towel.” There’s one hanging on a hook near the shower. Chibs grabs it and wraps it around his waist. “Be right back.”

Juice starts to shiver as he air dries standing in the tub. He feels marginally less like he’s gonna die, and then his teeth start chattering, bringing the headache back on full force. “Cold?” Chibs asks when he comes back with a couple towels, throws one at Juice, and uses the other one on his head. “S’why I take cold showers, when I get out I get warm ’stead of cold.” He dries off and tosses the towels over the shower rod. “Unless it’s summer. Then you take them as hot as you can stand and when you get out you start to cool off.”

That … would be almost interesting if Juice didn’t wish he could already be dead from the hangover. He has an immediate surround-sound full-screen flash from the dream. Bullets flying toward him, fangs tearing into his neck; he feels the edges of the room start to darken and nearly faints before Chibs slaps him gently across the face to bring him back to the here and now.

“You and me, boy-o, we’re gonna talk to Jax this morning. See if we can’t get you off this cartel shit.”

The ever-present fear he’s been carrying with him amps up a hundred notches. It’s not a threat, but it may as well be. “No, you ca--”

“Already tried with Clay. Bastard just fetched a patch from the safe and thought it would fix you up, good as new.” Chibs shakes his head and gets his shaving kit out from under the sink. “Like a fucking new patch for your cut could make having to kill a brother better.”

Juice wraps the towel around his waist and sits on the edge of the tub, watches Chibs shave. It’s a lesson in efficiency like so many other things he does. He’s stuck, at the mercy of Chibs’ discretion, unsure if what happened between them last night gives him any leverage or if it just puts him one step closer to being a Crow-eater in the eyes of the club. Who else but him has sucked more than one of his brothers’ cocks? Who else but him has _ratted_? Thought about it sure, everyone has -- even Jax -- but gone through with it? Stolen from the club and tried to hand over the evidence to the cops?

No one but him and a couple of whores who thought it would get them out of trouble with the cops.

“Wanna shave?” Chibs asks as he rinses the razor off in the sink. Juice drags his gaze from the yellowed-linoleum floor all the way up to Chibs’ baby smooth cheeks. The salt and pepper Vandyke setting off the Glasgow smile Juice has sort of always -- or at least since last night -- wanted to trace with his tongue.

He shakes his head no.

Chibs puts down the razor and hauls Juice to his feet once again. “I trust Jax to do what’s right for his brothers first, the club second. You get me?”

Juice can’t look him in the eyes, focuses his gaze on his forehead instead and nods.

“All right then. Got some clothes that might fit you on the bed. Go put ’em on. I’m gonna go start us a fry-up. Good greasy breakfast is what you need.” Chibs wraps an arm around the good side of Juice’s neck and pulls him out of the bathroom.

Juice has worn clothes that fit worse, but not since he prospected. When he finally makes his way to the kitchen there’s a skillet filled to nearly overflowing with eggs, bacon, and tomatoes. Chibs is wearing jeans and boots, cursing at the bacon fat that’s spattering him on the chest.

Juice has already fucked everything he loves up beyond all recognition. The least he can do is pull it together for the morning, let Chibs try to help him, before he faces the music and tells Roosevelt to fuck himself, he’s done.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Moosesal for the beta, all remaining mistakes are my own. There will be definitely one, maybe two more parts to this series. Points for anyone who recognizes the summary.


End file.
